Dance of Blacks and Greens
by Iron Aquilifer
Summary: King Viserys I Targaryen grows weaker with every passing day. On the island of Dragonstone, the Heir Apparent Rhaenyra Targaryen rules, oblivious to the machinations of her mother-in-law and the Hightowers in the capital. The realm is divided in half between the daughter of the king's first marriage and the son of his second, but still some hope that war can be avoided. AU
1. Chapter 1

Kermytt

They rode out beneath a dark sky. Banners hung limp in the heavy air, the reds and blues and greens turned to grey and grey and grey. The vanguard was fifty strong, riding mounts taller than any man and as broad as bulls. In their arms were lances and standards half again their own height. Grim faces, half hidden behind grey beards and mustaches of oiled brown, resembled carved stone. Kermytt rode with them, those proud knights of the House Tully. He had been deemed old enough to saddle a horse alongside the men, with his twelfth nameday now come and gone accompanied with as much fanfare as he could have expected it to garner. Twelve years of life, enough for a boy to ride out as part of his family's call to arms.

His father had been the same age when he first mounted a palfrey with the intent to see the will of House Tully made writ, a truth that seemed to have encouraged him to demand that the stablemaster saddle Kermytt's horse. Yet where Kermytt was to squire for his great-grandfather, the lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands in fealty to the King on the Iron Throne, his father Eylmar had instead served under the lord of Stone Hedge, Gregor Bracken. The same man that they now rode to face. Kermytt had been told that the bond between knight and squire was one that lasted a lifetime, as strong as one between blood relatives, and yet Eylmar did not seem to have such a powerful connection with his old tutor. At least not to the eyes of his son.

While the other knights spoke softly of Gregor's renown with a lance, and the squires muttered about how he had not problem in satisfying his lady wife given that he must be descended from the horse that reared proudly upon his family sigil, it was Eylmar who had voiced his disdain for the lord of Stone Hedge's grievance with Blackwood. He had called the man a brute, a scourge on the king's peace in the lands watered by the three rivers of the Trident. While Grovarr refused to entertain his eldest grandson's remarks, it did not stop him from calling together his household when Blackwood's message for aid came by raven. Nor did his open claim that Blackwood had instigated the fighting stop him from sending forth for his knights to make themselves to Riverrun, armed and readied to answer the call to battle. Though his mother had promised that Bracken wouldn't dare take the field against his liegelord, the youth could not help but hug her tightly whenever his father spoke of what he was riding towards.

His mother waved them off as was her duty, standing proud atop the battlements with her daughters close by her side. Eleanor, not yet ten, copied her mother all the way down to the faint smile playing on her lips. It was a look that Lady Lysa had often worn when Eylmar rode off to the royal court, or on business to the other lords of the realm at the behest of his lord grandfather. It was the same twitch of the lips that Kermytt himself had worn, when he used to stand and watch the men ride off in service to his family. Minisa on the other hand gave no sign that she had learned to follow her mother's lead, offering her brother and the men about him an expression that could easily have been apathy or sorrow. Kermytt waved back, but if any of the women saw him they gave him a sign that he could not make out.

His father, relegated to serving as castellan in the absence of his grandfather the lord, did not join his wife and daughters in bidding the men farewell. Instead he had watched them leave from the far corner of the courtyard, neither smiling when his son mounted his horse without difficulty nor when the company of Tully men-at-arms began to file out of the castle limits. Kermytt liked to think that he had stayed to watch them all go, whispering a prayer for their safe return. _He will have turned away the first chance he got_ , his thoughts told him, mocking. Elymar was not a man with the patience to wait beneath dark clouds when he could be inside by a blazing hearth.

Despite the urgency by which the men had piled out of Riverrun the pace they set northward was nothing but comfortable. Grovarr, for all of his desire to make the trip in person, was a man too old for the pains that came with a hard ride. He should have sent father in his place, Kermytt reasoned at the end of the first day's ride. Every time the lord groaned in his saddle the youth glanced over, fearful. It would be easy enough for him to fall from his mount, cringing against whatever pains an elder suffered after a lifetime of hardship as liege for the quarrelsome riverfolk. If his great grandfather fell, Kermytt did not think that he would be able to get back up. At least not with any sort of speed.

Yet the lord of Riverrun did not fall from his mount. Not on the first day, when they passed through the woods and sharp valleys that sheltered the streams which flowed into the Tumblestone. And not on the second, when they reached the first rolling hills of Blackwood Vale and the beginning of Blackwood's domain. He even managed to keep his back straight as the miles piled on, seemingly comfortable of the chainmail and heavy cloak he demanded that cover him at every moment. Though Kermytt had to pass the family colours to another squire after his muscles turned to lead, his old lord let no complaint slip from between his open lips.

From the first moment that their company passed into it, Blackwood Vale did not live up to its name. No trees grew in the soil, not black or red or white. Instead there were farms and crofts and villages. Crops grew where oaks had once spread their roots, and buildings of mud and wood rose where branches once reached out to touch the sky. Kermytt had never seen the vale before, had no reason or chance to. And now as he rode through it at the head of four hundred men, armed and armoured and dragging banners some seemed to hope would soon fly over a battlefield, he could not see the charm in the valley slopes or the simple beauty of its green hills. _I want to go home_ , he found himself musing as they stopped to build camp beneath the failing light that signaled the end to the third day of their march. _I do not like this place_.

He kept his misgivings to himself, however. At any rate, no one would be willing to listen to the whining of a Tully as if he were a child.

"Grandson."

Grovarr did not have the look of someone who was wishing to be somewhere else. No, he looked like a man whose real home was the pavillion drawn up by the river's edge, dreaming of the battle that was to come with dawn's first light. Pointing towards the stream that had found itself host to the Tully's horses, the Lord of Riverrun led his grandson's firstborn to a spot apart from their camp.

Neither spoke for a minute, the lord seemingly satisfied with taking in the soft-running waters they had commandeered for their own use.

"Why are we riding to Raventree?"

The question took young Kermytt off guard, his answer a questioning look. It sounded so genuine, as if his grand sire had truly forgotten why they were not behind the familiar walls of their home.

"Blackwood and Bracken," his father's grandfather further explained. "I could have called on them to answer me at Riverrun, where even they would not dare to draw a sword at my ruling. Why do we ride to them instead?"

For a moment it seemed that Grovarr was going to tell him. Then he sighed instead, allowing a quiet to settle at the end of his words.

"I," Kermytt did not know the answer. "To show them that we rule over more than Riverrun?"

Grovarr nodded, apparently satisfied with the young boy's answer. "If a Lord does not show himself to his subjects, they will forget why it is that they owe them fealty. And when they forget the reasons for the why, well, only blood can ensue."

Kermytt nodded, though he did not understand. His family ruled because the Conqueror had commanded it from the back of Balerion, the dragon remembered to most only as the Black Dread. No one had forgotten what came of those who defied the dragons and their masters. The beasts were flame made mortal, wild in action and desire save if bonded to a Targaryen, the only men that had the power to command a dragon as others rode horses. Each of the beasts were equal to a thousand knights and devoid of the failings that drove one man to slay another. Such was their power that only a single had ever been slain in battle, a fact that the Iron Throne was careful to remind their subjects.

"Men do not readily accept difficult truths," Grovarr added after another pause. "That their power has a ceiling beyond which they can not grasp. We are going to remind these men that their power stops where I will. The alternative leads us down a path that would see everything we hold dear taken from us."

"I understand," the young boy said, feeling blood rising to his cheeks. "But will Bracken agree?"

The question seemed to amuse his grandsire. "You have been listening to your father when he is in his cups," he replied with a laugh. "Bracken is not the problem. A prideful man sure, but can you name any man who is not? He is loyal, violent yes, but Lord Gregor has never given me a cause to question his integrity." The lord of Riverrun shifted his weight. "It is the Blackwoods who have a history of being open in their disagreement with my leadership. They love to hate Stone Hedge, and I have little to offer in place of such emotion."

Before Kermytt could think of something wise to say in reply, one of Tully's knights announced his presence. Much like the other veteran warriors Grovarr had bound to his command, Ser Roland was tall and broad, with a face that never seemed far away from a scowl. Little Will had told him that Ser Roland was a bastard's son, born to a smith's wife and raised by a pack of feral dogs in the woods around Pinkmaiden after she left him in the woods to die. Yet now he wore served as a sworn sword and ruled over an estate as a knight in his own right. And despite his rumoured foster parents, Kermytt had not heard any of Roland's fellow knights say a word against him.

"My lord, a rider has arrived at the command of Lord Bracken. It seems Lord Gregor is willing to meet to hear your judgement."

"Well then," Lord Tully declared with a passing glance at his great-grandson. "Let us see if we can't settle this without more bloodshed."


	2. Chapter 2

Lyman

Dusk had already come and gone when the king finally called on him. A day's work had passed them by, all of yesterday's troubles truly sown in the fertile soil of the now. He should not have been surprised that the command had come so late, but the time lost still rankled. Some small part of his mind chided him for his worrying. There were no foreign sails on the horizon, nor pretenders rallying treasonous armies to their banner.

There will be. The peace was built on a foundation of sand, of the words of men long dead. A strong hand was needed, a fierce warrior as wise as he was deadly. There could be no doubt as to where everyone stood before the king, to what each man was owed and owed in turn. Yet they all stood in the long hours before dawn, suspicion rife between brothers, confusion between kings and their subjects. And all refused to wait for the light to return to the world.

His mind could not settle, would not settle. The realm was not just a land divided by a history of bloodshed, but a beast of a thousand heads maddened at the thought of being caged. It refused to be tamed at the command of any mortal man, especially by those who called themselves kings. Even if it were tamed, the hunger the realm had would not fade away. Yet still his liege dared to turn his back on the bared fangs, expecting the Seven Kingdoms to be sated on the weak fare of duty and honour that he offered them.

"A king's duty is to command," Lyman faintly remembered from his days in the household of old Roxton, "and yours is to serve." He knew how to serve. Fifty years he had given to that word, to what that word meant. Fifty years to turn his mind from the troubles of his childhood to the worries of better men. He was of a brotherhood of servants, whose voices were those of a slave to a master. And he had come to accept that place, chained and shackled to the idea of duty. Yet try as he might, even now as he approached his seventieth nameday, he could not voice that idea in words that could turn others to the same path.

You are tired, he chided himself as he collected his papers. The need for sleep had grown greatly as of late, until he could scarce go an entire day without some servant or other having to wake him during meetings. The king's advisors pretended to make no mention of it in his presence. When he returned to his chambers however, he was certain that they traded remarks to his detriment. They had no love for him, as old in age and loyalty as he was.

Yet the king had no reason to doubt his council, they all knew that. He had lost the strength of youth, not his wits. The king knew that, seven bless his reign. Why else would he keep him on as Master of Coin, charged with the management of his finances? If his loyal words were of no use, then why still keep him close counsel, when the light of day was forgotten and the other advisors had fled to the welcome embrace of rest? The king needed him, his words and his devotion. There were too few of his kind at hand, too few willing to follow the road of duty when it pointed towards a mountain peak.

He crossed the bridge to Maegor's Keep as he always did as of late, without the company of friends or servants. Years before, he had walked together with Ryman Redwyne, a friend first and fellow councillor second. He had crossed the drawbridge with Septon Barth, marveling at the way the man saw the world. There had been Gyles Tarly and Harlon Farman, rivals in love; dashing Kyle Chelsted, who had dared to dream of the Handship; Jon Bywater with his glories of the Stepstones; and Lyle Staunton with his tragedies of the same. Lyman had been friends with others, but even their names now escaped him. All dead now, replaced one after the next until he was alone of the old ways.

Even the servants were strangers to him, their parents not yet born when he had come to sit the council. Forty years, fifty, and none knew him. A girl stepped gingerly around him, curtsying with as little grace as could be excused at that hour. She looked familiar, brown hair framing eyes of coal. I knew your mother, he wanted to say, smiling as an exhausted page in the livery of Bulwer passed them by. I knew all of your parents. Grandparents might have been closer to the truth. Now all he saw were ghosts, portraits transposed on the living.

The king greeted him just as he greeted all of the realm: abed. Once he had cut an imposing figure. That would have been a day long gone to faded memory, when lords and peasants alike cheered his reign. Twenty four years of rule was long enough to change a man, to strip away everything that had made them what they were. Now all that displayed any sort of regalia was the room itself, filled with treasures only a dying man could love. Tears threatened to dampen his face at the thought. He was too old to remain stoic in the face of such a fragile life.

"Ah, Lyman," the heavy-set monarch heaved. "I have need of your counsel."

King Viserys was not alone. Young Lannister and the Grand Maester kept His Grace company, their books sprawled across the royal bed. Both men stood to greet the old lord, their courtesies cut short by the sharp crack of the king's cough.

"You'd be better served with my leeches," Grand Maester Mellos japed. His smile stretched wide, but Lyman could see the fear that wore itself plainly on his brow. It was a fear he too was cloaked in.

Beesbury had served the old king for all of his adult years, and at the end he had been one to suffer the honour of standing by the royal bedside as the old king passed away. It surely would do him no great honour to have to do that again, as near his own end as he was. All my friends are dead, he told the Seven. Do not let we survive another king.

"I am sure you'd enjoy that," the king replied, a smile on his lips. "But I will have his words before your leeches. Tell him of our plans."

Tyland Lannister, his eyes dark, offered him a document. Glancing over the parchment, the ink still moist to his sight, the nobleman couldn't grasp at first what it was that he was seeing. They have been here for hours, Beesbury realised. Working away on some project of the Queen's while the real problems multiplied in the dark, untouched. All without me.

"Braavos has begun raising a fleet to rival the Daughters," Viserys muttered. "And if war breaks out, we will need a fleet that cannot be turned by the allure of gold."

Lyman's eyes darted from Lannister to maester, feeling something stir as they avoided his gaze. He was hearing the Queen in this plan, he knew. The Velaryons had provided the crown with its fleet since before there was even a crown to serve. From their island seat of Driftmark they had been the bedrock upon which the Conqueror had united the realm, and enjoyed royal match after royal match for their service. Yet the queen had no love for the Sea Snake, even as his wealth bought yet more galleys for the realm's defense. Especially as his wealth meant that their loyalty was to Driftmark and not her alone.

"It also gives me something to do beyond drinking the keep dry," Tyland added, laughing though all knew he did not touch wine nor ale. He had received the honour of Master of Ships, long a title bestowed upon the Lords of Driftmark. His duty was to maintain the royal fleet, appointing its captains and lieutenants, overseeing the maintenance of the sails and oars and ropes, and a hundred other necessary evils of governance. However the royal fleet now sat at just fifteen strong; galleys built to honour the dead members of the Old King's family. Forgoing rams and castles, the attention was given only to to their appearance. As barges they had no rival, but for warships they were as useful as riding a horse into the sea.

"We already have a fleet at Driftmark, Your Grace."

One that equaled the Daughters, if the Sea Snake's boasting held true. And it was not as if they had the gold on hand to pay for a hundred new galleys in time for war. The people claimed that peace brought prosperity, but Lyman could only watch in horror as the treasury seemed to gather more dust and empty space than coins. They had created wealth under Jaehaerys, even as gold flowed to build the Kingsroad from the Red Keep to Winterfell and Castle Black beyond. Yet the past twenty years saw no flourishing of the vault beneath them.

"A fleet of mercenaries and pirates who work for gold," Lannister reminded him, as if the old man were just simply that and not a member of the small council and noble lord in his own right. "Lys is home to the Rogares, and Braavos houses the Iron Bank. Corlys is as rich as he is ambitious, but even he cannot match either coin for coin. We would be as well burning the docks from White Harbour to White Town ourselves so surely would they turn on Driftmark and the crown."

Viserys only nodded, face turned to cough into a pillow. He was never one to shout down at his vassals, but the silence spoke volumes. Sweet words and empty compliments, those were what the king enjoyed above all else now. The realm was at peace, and that was all that mattered to him. Long ago had he turned his eyes from what his legacy was being turned into.

"And what of Redwyne and Hightower, or Lannister? Even Gulltown and Duskendale float warships enough to protect our trade should Braavos make war." He turned to Mellos, who looked almost supportive to his plight. "We have ships enough." And greater problems that need this gold, he almost murmured.

"But not ships at hand," old Mellos finally replied, as if reading from the parchment in his hand. "Not with that Greyjoy youth back in the isles to threaten the coastline."

Lannister leapt at the doubt that came from his fellow advisor. "And we have a thousand knights with nothing to their name clogging up the city. What better way than to name them as officers in the fleet? We would be binding a hundred families closer to the crown."

"Driftmark cannot be relied upon should we become invested in war," said the king with lumbering finality, a pained expression on his face. It had been his edicts which drove the Sea Snake from court and into the arms of Daemon Targaryen, his feared brother. Even after years of reconciliation, the two were very different men. "No more than the western ports be allowed to leave themselves unguarded against the Greyjoys should they dare to reave again. I will have a fleet, and we will crew it with men loyal to the crown."

Lannister knights, he wanted to correct, Alicent's men. But there was no use in arguing. The king would not hear of such talk, just as surely as he refused to see the crown splitting apart above his brow. He wanted his firstborn child to succeed, and yet seemed eager to put swords in the hands of her enemies. The white-haired lord of Honeyholt opened his mouth, hearing himself accept the king's decision.

"This matter is settled. Tyland, Lyman, see to it on the morrow. Now leave me to Mellos' leeches," the king finished, his gaze wavering.

Lyman hesitated. I must speak. The king had to hear him out, for Rhaenyra's sake. Alone, he could have the king's attention. His family was where his attentions should be, not on some foreign war. Braavos had no dragons, nor the Daughters. They knew that they had not hope to win a war with the Targaryens, long-standing partners in trade that brought all parties gold aplenty. However the moment passed and he found himself forced to take Tyland's offer of company back to his chambers.

The Master of Ships did not speak as they departed Maegor's Holdfast, the keep within a keep whose history boasted as bloody a tale as its namesake. Instead he just smiled, as if only he alone in the world was privy to a fool's jape. Maybe he was. The king was abed and those who spoke for him were nothing but extensions of his second wife. Lyman scowled, at the Lannister, at the city, at the world. He would have his voice. His moment of truth.

Duty demanded it.


End file.
